Write a short story in one or two posts. Go!

>>24475457 (OP)
The king had just invaded the small village of the boy. The king was a tyrant and In that village saw a girl he liked,but the girl wasn't aware of how the king even looked,and she was already in love with a boy, yet the king still took her but before doing so,he hit her in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword.This will later have consequences down the line. For when the king took her to the castle the girl didn't have any memory of her village nor the boy she once loved, only the memory of a place she longed for and a person she longed for.She said to the king"where am I? Is this home?".The king realizing that the girl has had amnesia, he told her lies, " yeah this is your home. This whole castle is your city and the nobles living in it are your people" the castle itself was as big as the village itself. "And I am your husband" the king said. The girl still having certain doubt asked "if you are my husband what is the color of the clothes I usually wear" this was unfortunately something the king knew for he spied on her and even when he took her she was wearing the clothes she usually wears,a sky blue dress.The girl was now wearing different clothes from the ones he had when the village was invaded,she was wearing noble clothes."You are right so you must know me somehow but still..." the girl still showing doubt. " don't worry my queen for I will soon get you out of this coma in which you have been put on by that evil intruder" said the king. "Intruder?" Replied the girl. "Yes an intruder came in and hit you in the back of the head with an object and now you have lost your memory but worry not, I will make you recover all the lost memories" soon after the king told lie after lie about her fake life as a queen.The king could for he was a good politician therefore he knew how to sound convincing even if he was lying. Back with the boy,he survived the invasion for the king didn't took much nor any lives but took his love interest. The boy said" I will get her back" and fleed to inside the castle.The boy had to imitated the appearance of a noble which he successfully did.When he entered the castle he was lost for the castle was like a maze but using the heart he was slowly but surely closing in on them. The king and the girl were now at a wedding hall within the castle and as the king was saying"this is where we got marry"the boy enters and said "stop!!"The girl recognized that voice and now recognized the boy but couldn't imagine a memory together but he was definitely the one.The boy said "I am your lover"." if you are, whats the color of the shoes I usually wear?"The girl replied.The boy said "Brown" before the king could for the king didn't know the color for he was always starting at her body and face. But the boy knew every single detail about her. "You must be him, my lover"said the girl.Then the girl went to him running but as she did the king took his sword and impaled her and said"if I can't have you no one can".

>>24475457 (OP)
>>24475459

Then the boy and the king fought. With the boy winning. He took the body of the girl and brought her to the boy and girls village for a funeral. The end.

>>24475457 (OP)
He would never talk to anyone nor did he had any friends but this alone doesn't make you stand out since in this day and age such things aren't uncommon. He would always sit by himself even physically move his desk away from others, and he would write in his journal. but something that would make him stand out would be his smile, that diabolical smile that would stretch from one end of the mouth to the other. He would have that smile while writing and every so often would let out a laugh mid writting. He would ignore anyone who asked what he was doing and would physically block anyone from seeing. One day he went to the bathroom, this never happens, and left his journal there. Almost as if he teasing us to read what was in there, so we did. We thought we would find jokes and the such or funny drawings but it was the opposite. It was ways in which he would kill us and detailed drawings on him killing people, very detailed and at the end it said "I know you are reading this, today is the day" and then we heard screaming and gun shots down the hall...

>>24475457 (OP)
Little Billy snuck out of the house to buy some peanuts at the local general store. He had saved up his allowance for three weeks to buy the peanuts that he had seen at the store and that his mother wouldn't buy for him. She told him they were too salty, they weren't good for him.
Billy got to the store. He went up to the counter and stared at the bag of plump peanuts behind the cashier.
The cashier caught Billy's big, goofy grin and knew what he wanted. He handed Billy the bag of peanuts.
"That'll be 75 cents," the cashier said.
Billy piled his pocket full of change onto the counter. It was exactly 75 cents.
Billy left the store with his bag of peanuts.
He thought about just how he would enjoy them when he got home.
"Uh oh," he realized. He had to eat them before he got home, or his mother might see that he had snuck out of the house and bought the peanuts.
Little Billy found a cool spot in the shade of a maple tree and sat down, Indian style.
He opened his bag of peanuts. He inhaled the nutty fragrance. It was intoxicating.
Billy took out a peanut, eyed it with culinary lust, and cracked open the shell.
He gently placed one of the nuts in his mouth.
He chewed the nut gently and lovingly.

Then he spit it out and kept spitting, spitting every last salty bit of nut in his mouth.
His mother had been right all along.
Little Billy frowned.
Then he threw the bag of peanuts at a robin, knocking it out of a tree, and walked back home.

>>24475457 (OP)
Baby carriage washed upon the side of the river. I pulled my bike over to the side of the road, perhaps no one driving by noticed or cared. The usual suspects lay on the shoulder, cigarette butts, crashed cans, plastic wrappers, pieces of car tires, the glass crunched beneath my footsteps. The dandelions were in full bloom, marking the splitting asphalt with their miniature suns. No paths lead to the river. The weeds and grasses scrunched underneath, the few sentinel trees present stood guard by the water's edge, smaller than those across the road safe from river's flooding, it seems their older kin knew something we did not. A car drove past, my attention lapsed, I fell down on my ass. Oh well, these things happen, it will just be another bruise. The baby carriage was a few paces ahead of me. Laying upon its side with its wheels left in the river like a woman might dip her toes into water, its basket shut facing me. Covered in dried leaves and mud, I approached, wondering what might be hiding inside its chest.
A wrapped bundle of cloth. No movement. I unwrap the parcel. There is movement but that of an item within a gift-wrapped box, not of the living. Bones, not human, but small, many, several skulls all stripped pearly white. "I am sorry my friends." I find branch nearby sturdy enough to dig a small hole in the soft Earth. After 10 minutes the hole is deep enough, I wrap the bundle gingerly and lay the family to rest. Looking at the carriage I am reminded of my own appearance. I throw the carriage upon my shoulder and begin my ascent away from the river, grasping roots for leverage. Another car goes past. In a few minutes I am onto the road, I toss the carriage aside. I ready my bike and peddle off. Looking over my shoulder, it seems both of us are irrevocably changed.

>>24475457 (OP)
The last time I saw her was that night when Dane came by the house with a paper bag of oranges and a box of VHS tapes. Toby and I ran over to help once he reached the driveway, but it was dark out so there wasn’t any real danger. Before closing the door I could see a few fallen fruits dotting the snow. Above them the sky was a cloudless blue like shallow waters and if you stared at it long enough you could possibly make out the shapes of sea stones and dead coral, perhaps the tracings of movement from something swimming even deeper below, but then you would see the blinking light from a plane drifting by and snap out of it. The lamppost cast a pale yellow spotlight on the oranges. I thought about my grandfather in the Keys. He grew Valencias and when I was younger he would take me to his backyard where they grew rows and rows of the orange trees and beyond them was the forest where we would hike through knifed ridges of cypress and slash pine. Sometimes he showed up with a little dog that yipped at every noise and left dotted prints in the soil like the deer that seldom ran through here but once we saw one knife through a clearing and it walked up to grandpa like a horse and he touched it and said he never saw a thing like that in his life and when he died we moved to Michigan and Toby called me to close the door. Dane dumped the oranges next to the ottoman and told us to meet him downstairs. In the basement Dane was messing with the VCR and for a moment I thought to tell him he was jamming in the tape the wrong way. The plastic grooves inside the slot that should have prevented misalignment had been snapped off long ago: when my brother was six he forced in an upside down National Geographic: Really Wild Animals and knifed the tape. We never found out what happened to those poor meerkats. Dane flipped the tape and we finally got somewhere. The screen flickered then flashed with the FBI copyright warning, knifed our faces with an electric blue glare. We heard the doorbell and remembered it was fucking freezing outside and we all ran up the stairs to be the first to open the door. Dane got to it first and when he jack-knifed through the room to swing it open I heard her voice. Justine stepped in with her girlfriend, something with a M like Marsha or Marcie I don’t remember. A week ago we told them we had a pirated copy of A Clockwork Orange so they agreed to meet at our place to watch. Toby called up Dane and the rest is history. We all went down to the basement and in single file sat on the couch. Justine was next to me. She smelled nice. Then I heard a strange, squeaky voice yell out Hey Hey Apple. I turned. Justine was gone. Everyone was gone. I was sitting on the couch along with the paper bag of oranges next to me. At the top of the bag a single orange turned darkly, and upon it emblazoned the grinning face of a dark and angry god. He tells me “hey Apple guess what.” And I can only ask “what.” And then I feel the knife.

>>24475457 (OP)
Once upon a time, there was a little girl. The little girl had two brothers, but they were already grown and lived far away, so she lived alone with her mother. The mother was old and has had a bad cough since she could remember, so it was on the little girl to get the eggs and clean the porch, to sort the socks and dust that lamp shade. One day, the little girl was cleaning out her ears, as she does every saturday, when the mirror in front of her burst into thousands of tiny shards. The splinters scattered into every corner of the bathroom and some of them pierced her eye balls like tiny spears. The little girl made no sound. She calmly took her tweezers and started plucking the glass bolts out of her cornea. When she was done, she had laid the bloody glass bits in a neat row on the side of the sink. She left them there for no particular reason. When mother woke up, she sat on the bed, took her hand and said: „We should call the boys, we might need some better eyes around here“.

In a cave by the side of a mountain were sheltering two young men – famished from the lack of food in their desolate surroundings. One day, out of the blue, a strange man appeared at the mouth of the cave, holding a peculiar looking staff in one hand, and a basket in the other. He quickly acknowledged the gaunt youths laying inside, and began speaking thus:
‘Halloa! I spotted you from across the plains, so I’ve come to ask if can spot me back with a favour! As you can see, I have here this basket full of lovely ripe apples; however, I have some rather tricky business to attend to before I can enjoy their delicious flesh and juices, and so I need somebody to safeguard them until I’m done. It won’t require much effort; you simply need set them down in your cave and make sure nobody eats them until I get back. Considering there’s nobody else around, you probably won’t even need to do a thing. What do you say? I promise it’ll be worth your while!’
The duo shrugged and nonchalantly let the man know they were willing to look after the basket for him. They then asked if he had any other food that they could eat, as it had been a long time since their last meal and were thus starving. The man confidently assured the pair that there would never have to worry about hunger again once he was finished with his ‘tricky’ business, provided they keep his apples safe; and that he shouldn’t be gone too long – before setting down the basket and disappearing over the horizon.
The perfume sweet scent of nourishment wafted through the otherwise stale air – the ne plus ultra of temptation for the starved youths, beckoning them to forgo their promise. For days and weeks they lay about the cave growing further and farther emaciated; but despite their bodies’ yearning desires, they would not encroach on the strange man’s fruits – all at the prospect of being rewarded with enough food to last a lifetime, or two

>>24475482
The weeks became a month, and then another, and the stranger still hadn’t returned from his so-called “tricky” business. The pangs of hunger wept and whimpered all the while, but admirably – if stubbornly – the duo did not relent. The man’s tardiness grew to such an extent that those once-ripe fruits inevitably began to shrivel – and thusly, rot...
‘That buffoon!– if he doesn’t return soon, these apples will go to waste!’
‘Just a little longer... If he doesn’t come back in the next few days then let’s just eat them ourselves. A wilted consolation is better than nothing...’
And so did a few more days pass – nearly three months to the day – the odour from the basket growing increasingly rank all the while;– as agreed the young men opened up the fruit basket ready to partake in their bitter sour feast. However, instead of finding a basket of softened and pungent, but still edible, apples, was nought but a fetid pile of mouldy mush.
A short time later, at the mouth of the cave, appeared a familiar looking, yet still strange, man holding a peculiar staff in one hand, and an infuriating irony in the other. With a jovial demeanour he greeted the dejected youths:
‘Halloa my friends – long time; no see! Why the long face? My apologies for not returning sooner – my business turned out to be much trickier than I was expecting. Did you enjoy my apples? I assume you ate them yourselves once you realised I wasn’t coming back. You were so hungry, it would’ve been absurd not to...’
Before the pair had finished groaning the man started up again:
‘Oh-ho. Don’t tell me...– don’t tell me you let them rot away without eating them? Oh-ho-ho-ho, this is incredible!’
Still laughing, the man exited the cave and started walking off into the horizon – his hysterics echoing throughout the surrounding area as he did.

The man believed in one truth: wealth was the only absolute asset. Not love. Not family. Not honor. Just cold, hard cash. He spent his life hoarding it, thumbing each bill between his fingers like a rosary bead, whispering numbers like prayers.
One night, he found a caravan parked outside his home;a nomad’s wagon, its wood warped by decades of wind. Inside, a trader grinned with the patience of a jackal. "Come, friend!" he called, spreading his wares: a chair, a fan, a rope. Each priced at the exact sum of the man’s life savings.
"Buy my chair for rest," speaks the trader. "My fan for relief. My rope for freedom."The man hesitated. His cash would rot, fade, burn. But these? Tangible assets with weight, with purpose. Hands trembling, he handed over every last penny.
That night, he sat in the chair. He cooled himself with the fan. And when the dawn came, he hung the rope from the ceiling.In the end, the man died with exactly what he had paid for.

When he wakes up it is cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It's dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan move through then approach him.
He hears them say somethings, there's a gunshot, he's dead.
When he wakes up it is cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It's dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan move through then approach him.
He hears them say some things, their language has more consonant sounds now, he says something. There's a gunshot, he's dead.
When he wakes up it is cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It is dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan move through then approach him.
He hears them say some things, he says something, there's a gun shot, he's dead.
When he wakes up it is cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It is dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan go through then approach him.
There's a gunshot, he's dead.
When he wakes up it is cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It's dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan go through then approach him.
He hears them say something, he either says something or doesn't, does he remember? They take him in. There's a gunshot, he's dead.
When he wakes up it's cold, he feels cold, he feels sand. It's dark, he's in a desert and he sees a caravan go through then approach him.
There's a gunshot, he's dead.

want to share an anecdote, and while anecdote it is, it is no less important for demonstrating true and proper facts-based ethics.

It began one July morning in Chicago. I was living with my two younger sisters, Justine, 5 and Cunégonde, 7. Both I miss very deeply, but understand that by their sacrifice, not only have they bettered the lives of two men, they have also bettered my own through a deeper understanding of facts-based ethics.

The first man was Drayvontay, a tall, muscular blackamoor of the most virtuous sort—the second, a culturally rich indigenous man by the name of Raphaelo. The sight of the two of them in my living room sent thrills of wonder through me—what could these two beautiful, ethnic folks desire from me and my little sisters? Upon closer inspection, I realized that the two of them had bound Cunégonde to the couch in a pool of her own black blood, while both fucked Justine on the table, one with his phallus deep within her pearly throat, the other inside her cardinal-red button of an anus.

"Sirs!—I implore you to reconsider your actions! Don't you understand that children cannot consent?"

The two men, blackamoor and indigene—(though I must say the blackamoor too, is indigenous, as we are all one race except whites)—looked at me with a curious expression of refinement. They with their bared teeth, accented by rich African-American colored crust, leered at me with grace.

"Don't you know that your actions cause unnecessary suffering? Please, if you find it in your hearts, please refrain from doing this in the future."

The two laughed, and I too at making these fellow human beings smile—through this simple display of kindness, the overall happiness of the world increased. They resumed fucking my sister ass, cunt, and mouth, their phalluses practically splitting her open. It was then that I approached.

"Sirs, I will not call the police out of consideration for the barbarity of Laws, but I do humbly request that you stop."

The two, as if deaf—though deaf they may be to higher principles—ignored me; I considered what to do as they fucked her vivaciously. If I were to call the police, then not only would my sisters be harmed, but these two men may also be killed in a savage altercation. It was then that I came upon an idea:—

"Sirs, please allow me to assist you in your task. By showing you the value of human compassion, perhaps you too may understand the harm your actions cause."

Oddly they ignored me, too engrossed in culturally enriching my young sister to hear. I understood the pain those two men must feel, burdened by the suffering of a life of oppression and poverty. The indigenous Raphaelo discharged, filling Justine's throat with his masculine seed. Quickly, I seized the moment to impart justice upon this world, and wiped the fuck-juice from her lips.

"Mommy! Help me! Call the cops!" She cried.
Dreadful! Did she not understand the harm that could come if those two men had been shot?

Hot sauce making the tips of my fingers sticky, the sound of my son and my nephew playing brawlstars in another room, I pulled out a whole pile of hairs again. Laundry waits, it needs to be hung up before it gets that mildewy stench. Especially in this warm and humid weather. At least it‘s good for making apple cider vinegar. I wonder if the white film on top of it is a good or a bad sign. I have betrayed myself again. It does not even surprise me anymore. I should do a purification ritual but I am too addicted to comfort. What a sad thing.

>>24475457 (OP)
The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.